


Hot House

by SashaDistan



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Regency, Hurt/Comfort, Licking, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Allura/Lotor (Voltron), Plant Dryad Keith, Plants, Pollination Kink, Shiro (Voltron) & Allura are Siblings, Vague DubCon, Very Low Key Magical References, floraphilia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:43:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29899902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SashaDistan/pseuds/SashaDistan
Summary: Tropical plant dryad Keith seeks shelter from an unseasonal snowstorm in an enormous and beautiful temperate greenhouse.  A greenhouse which so happens to belong to Shiro.And Shiro loves his plants.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 86
Kudos: 113





	1. Keith

**Author's Note:**

> This idea has been living rent free in my head for the better part of a year. And now it's spring again. And we love spring.
> 
> Thank you to Aphor, who has been a great cheerleader of this project, and thank you to Hiro who gave me the final push I actually needed in order to start.
> 
> Dedicated to the Temperate Glasshouse at Kew Botanical Gardens. To the staff I can only say - I am sorry ~~notsorryintheslightest~~

Keith shivers as he walks, feeling as though he’s been wading through the thick snow forever, even though it has only been falling for an hour. But it shows no signs of stopping, and he has already lost a toe-root to the extreme chill. Even though Keith knows it will regrow eventually, the indignity stings.

Every tropical dryad and nymph learns to read the seasons and the patterns of the weather, even more so than their hardy cousins, and Keith is too smart to have been caught out like this. It was time to leave the South: Keith knows he is suited to far wetter, more tropical, climates than his cactus father. But not this kind of wet.

Keith wraps his arms around himself as he goes, missing the sun and the thick pelt of glossy leaves he has always been able to summon around himself, even in this form. He curses the gods and the weather and the lack of shelter, and prays to Gaia he does not lose a limb to the frosty chill which he can feel invading his every cell.

It seems as though he has walked for hours when he finally sees it, and for a long moment Keith's thinks like he must be either dreaming or delirious.

A greenhouse. A huge structure of glass and metal – in the middle of this well maintained but empty parkland – full of light and radiating warmth. Keith has seen smaller ones before, kept by lay people and mages alike, but never anything on so grand a scale. In the gloom of the snowstorm, it is like a beacon.

Keith hurries.

The snow stops settling a few feet from the perimeter of the glasshouse, warded off by the seeping heat, and Keith treads onto flagstones which are not damp or freezing and wants to cry with relief. It is short lived however, because the moment his flesh comes into contact with the fractionally warmer surface, pain rises through his shoots, and Keith realises how cold he really is.

It takes him several attempts to grasp the handle of the door firmly, more to slide it open. The blast of hot, humid air which bathes over him brings forth an actual sob – loud in the hushed quiet of the glasshouse. He slides through the gap, ensuring not to snag his numb toe-roots or the fine fronds which hang limp with wet snow around his face, and slides the door firmly back into place. The moment the chill wind of outside cuts off, Keith pitches forwards, lying flat out on the warm smooth flagstones of the path in front of him. Only after several long minutes of gulping down warm, wet breaths, does he rouse himself to take stock of his surroundings.

The temperate greenhouse is warm, warmer even than the outside air had been before the unseasonal snowstorm hit. The huge panes of glass which form the roof are dark with fresh snowfall, but between them and Keith is a fine mist of warm, sweet water, rich with minerals that Keith’s body desperately craves. A network of elegant and highly polished copper pipes runs high above him, reaching to every corner of the glasshouse, keeping the very air thick and moist. The stones below Keith are hot to the touch in the most comfortable way, and after a few minutes of horizontal rest, Keith drags himself onto hands and knees. He reaches out to the nearest perfectly crisp edged flower bed, and sinks his fingers into the soil.

The soil is dark, rich, almost black with loam, and Keith moans in open delight. Never before has he tasted earth so welcoming and perfect. The bed closest to him is densely packed with bromeliads of every hue, and they have been planted so that the foliage-petals range from deepest wine red, through pink and orange, until they reach the palest yellows in a pleasing ombre. Rising up behind them are plush bearded irises in every colour combination imaginable, backing onto giant canna lilies far taller than Keith. As he gazes around in wonder at the glasshouse, each bed – some small and some vast- is just as wondrous as the first. Here there are banana palms, mango, and pineapple, some heavy with fruit. Further on, magnificent vines twist around a spiral metal staircase, hibiscus flowers weaving between their glossy leaves as they reach upward to the mezzanine observation gallery. Delicate orchids grow in perfectly cleared circles of well-drained soil, each positioned for precise viewing and each in full flower. A bed of exotic grasses wave their long, fine leaves in the warm breeze pushed around the greenhouse by slowly rotating fan blades.

Keith stares and gawps, and he wonders again if he has in fact died in the snow outside, and arrived in heaven.

And then he spies – between the thick spikes of a snake plant and the fleshy, fat points of an aloe so large he could probably use one leaf as a bed – a collection of succulents and pitcher plants at the far end of the glasshouse. Keith drags himself upright, and heads that way.

This bed, like several others, is big enough that there are narrow dirt-trodden paths looping through it, quite separate from the main flagstones, and clearly used by the gardeners who maintain this space. And though Keith wonders at whose pleasure all these things are grown – because the energy and magic required for a building of this size to contain a climate so different from the one outside must be considerable – he stills steps onto the soil. Keith wanders between enormous monstera plants, trailing his fingers along their glossy leaves. Moisture beads under his fingertips and Keith licks it off, smiling at the sweet flavour.

Despite the warmth and sudden influx of food, Keith yawns. It is late, the lights overhead glow softly red, simulating the setting sun which is lost somewhere behind the snowstorm, and he is tired from his long journey through the snow. Near the monstera is a stand of upright pitcher plants with white tips, but between the two is an empty area of soil which is not a path. There is still plenty of room to spare before the curling tendrils of the red and yellow clock vine begin.

Keith knows he will rest so much easier in his plant form.

Softly, he goes to stand in the gap, wriggling his toe roots into the beautiful soil as he lets go of his last breath. It takes no concentration at all to slide down into the earth, allowing his body to shrink and change, as parts of himself reorganise themselves until Keith is no more than another tropical plant nestled between many others. His thick spiralling leaves are various shades of purple and red at the tips and deepening into green at the base as they piercing up through the soil. A single round based deep purple pitcher hanging from his tendrils. Keith listens to his own heartbeat as it slows, his blood becoming sap, his mind turning cloudy as his vision fades into sensations rather than perfect sight.

Keith twists one leaf-petal – sort of his hand, sort of his mouth – to unfurl further in order to catch the drips of sweet water which fall from the trailing vine above, and then slides into a meditative sleep.

*

Being a plant is good, calming, grounding in the most literal manner possible, but Keith awakens from his wordless commune with nature with the distinct sensation of being touched.

“Aren’t you the pretty newcomer?” A rich, deep voice is speaking close by. It’s not like hearing with ears, but Keith feels the warmth of the person’s tone and his foliage quivers at the puff of breath which accompanies the words. “I wonder where you came from.”

Keith inhales through his leaves, drinking in the bright light of the simulated morning and the reflected sun rays from the crisp white snow outside. He cannot see per se, but he knows instantly the moment a hand draws near, and then warm fingers brush reverently over the edge of his petal, the one which is more scarlet and wet with dew of the morning watering mist. Keith quivers, even though he doesn’t mean to.

“Such vibrant foliage. You’re so gorgeous.”

Keith flexes his roots – the sensation is somewhere between fingers and toes and digestive system – and without his permission, his leaf-mouth twists towards the voice and the touch. It is a man, Keith divines with his strange senses; big and broad and crouched beside him in loose trousers and a billowy unlaced shirt with bare feet. The man’s finger trails across his leaf and tickles down his stem, all the way to the loamy soil.

“You are so well grown… though, I didn’t plant you. And I’m sure I would have noticed if you were here yesterday.”

“Shiro!” A voice – distant but sharp, bright like droplets over a waterfall – rings out across the glasshouse. “Where are you, dearest brother? Come on, we are supposed to be having a working breakfast in the large study. You can play gardener later!”

“It is _my_ glasshouse Allura!”

“Our father is far too lenient with you!” There is mirth in the voice. “Come on. You’re supposed to chaperone Master Lotor and I this afternoon.”

“Not again,” the young man – Shiro – grumbles softly. Keith feels his attention turn back to where he grows. “It’s so very dull. I’d much rather stay here and talk to you.” His fingers – broad and soft, gentle – caress Keith’s petals again. “I’ll be back later, pretty flower.”

And then, just as Keith thinks Shiro is going to leave, the man leans down and presses a kiss – his lips are moist with the air of the glasshouse and a tiny bit chapped – to Keith’s open flower. Keith shivers, fighting the rising need to take his more humanoid form, because plant bodies and minds are not meant to deal with the tumult of emotions flowing through him at so exquisite a touch. With a last puff of breath, Shiro rises and leaves.

Keith stays rooted to the spot in shock.

*

It's nice being a plant for a long period of time, especially somewhere so pleasant. The air is the perfect humidity, Keith is warm, and the soil around his roots is gorgeously fertile. Keith relaxes, his thick leaves unfurling, each of his flowers turning a richer crimson as he settles into his surroundings. His pitcher grows heavy and full as his plant body releases sweet stimulants, and soon he feels the firm heat of his stamen rising up through the stem Shiro had so lovingly stroked earlier.

Keith quivers at the memory of the caress, and-

Why is he being touched?

It is hard to pull his consciousness up from the meditative state of a plant-at-rest without also losing his plant form, but Keith does not know if he would still be as welcome an invader, if he reveals his tropical dryad shape. And his sap-pulse is racing, he feels flushed, and Keith comes fully into all his senses to hear Shiro's warm voice.

"So soft, pretty flower. And so unusual. Look at you, _gorgeous_ , blooming just for me."

Shiro's warm fingertips slide deep into the funnel of Keith's main flower, and then they stroke back up his softly knobbled stamen.

Keith knows that if he had a mouth, he would be panting.

Shiro gathers Keith's pollen – smoothly soft, dry, and faintly yellow – on his fingers, and Keith shivers in hot shameful pleasure as Shiro's spreads it down his shaft.

He should not be so turned on by being touched like this, but equally, no one should just _be_ touching him either. What is Shiro doing to him?

"Pretty flower... You feel so good. So vibrant….” Shiro’s fingers slides down Keith’s petal again, dipping deeper into him until he touches the little sticky pads at the base of Keith's stamen. “So responsive, too. You _are_ a special one.”

The praise and the touches trickle along Keith’s plant nerves like no pleasure he’s ever known, and Keith feels his stamen pulse, thickening and hardening further as Shiro continues his reverential stroking. Keith’s a hybrid and he’s not self-fertile, so when Shiro’s fingers begin to transfer his pollen to the stigma patches at the base of his shaft, he does not worry, but his senses light up just the same. Satisfaction at a job well done, pleasure in luring a creature to enact pollination, delight and ecstasy spirall through his plant brain, from the tips of his shoots right into his roots.

Something else stirs around his roots, the soil moving in a different way than the familiar, slow action of worms or other burrowing insects, and his body does not react in fear like it would to a slug or caterpillar. There is physical movement, as though Shiro’s fingers are somehow also underground, and then Keith loses himself in a sudden and heady rush of magic – sweet like spring rain, rich like woodland moss – which sweeps up from the soil. Keith unfurls – every leaf and petal flowing with fresh energy that wants him to grow and shine and show his best self – and bends towards the touch which still trails across his foliage.

“Oh… ahhh-! Yes, yes- nnnngh! Fuck!”

There a sound – wet, smacking and repetitive – and then the magic whisks away just as quickly as it came, and Keith is wholly in charge of his senses when Shiro grits his teeth and groans, and something wet and hot splashes over Keith’s leaves and the throbbing red petal of his main flower. He can taste it – the senses of his palisades far finer and quicker to absorb liquids than simple touch is – and Keith quivers as he feels the hot, salty slide of Shiro’s come trickle down the funnel of his flower to pool around his stigma.

Keith wants to groan, and instead his foliage shakes, the sweet nectar of his pitcher almost sloshing with the movement, and without meaning to he bends towards the warmth of Shiro’s touch. The man is there to greet him, but instead of fingers, Keith’s thick petal caresses a strong, smooth skinned jaw, a sharply cut cheekbone, and then those sweet, slightly chapped lips which curve upward at the contact.

He made Shiro smile.

“Pretty flower,” Shiro whispers, breath and lips moving against the innermost part of his flower, brushing his quivering stamen. “Thank you, my gorgeous one. You are so sweet.”

Keith aches with the desire to shift and move, to flow into his other shape, to possess a brain far better able to handle the tumult of emotions and sensations which pulse through him. But he doesn’t. He remains a plant, unable to do more than simply feel everything, as Shiro kisses the curve of his petal, and then the side of his stamen – the textured shaft thick as two of Shiro’s fingers at least – and then the tip. Keith feels his leaves flutter in pleasure, his roots expanding under the earth, growing thick with desire and lust. A little puff of fresh pollen clouds the air around his stamen, landing like fae dust on Shiro’s lips and the skin of his jaw.

Shiro smiles again and makes a soft pleased noise, and then the man drags the heavy, wet muscle of his tongue up Keith’s stamen and licks the pollen from him. If Keith had eyes, they would be full of stars. As it is, he feels pleasure roll through his every capillary and vein, every leaf flushing brightly with colour as he pollinates the man who laps and kisses eagerly along his shaft. Shiro suckles gently on the tip of his stamen, and Keith misses his dryad body’s ability to whimper and writhe. And then the man is dipping down further, tongue thrusting softly into Keith’s inner folds, and Keith loses his mind when Shiro licks over his stigma.

When Shiro leans back, his fringe is dusted softly yellow with Keith’s pollen.

“See you in the morning, pretty flower.” One last kiss is placed on his bright green leaf. It feels like a brand. “Sleep well, beautiful.”

Confused and sated, and feeling thoroughly debauched, Keith allows himself to slip into the quiet sleep of his plant self, deciding that trying to think about what just happened can wait until morning.


	2. Shiro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Shiro becomes more familiar with his new flora.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WAAAY more of you are horny for plants than I thought there would be. I see you, and you're all awesome.
> 
> UPDATE: look at this beautiful [PLANT KEITH](https://twitter.com/fairy_tank/status/1370059415114637334?s=20) Fairy Tank drew! isn't he so pretty. I adore.

Shiro wakes with the soft glow of first light coming in through the open curtain, and stretches languorously in his bed. His sister often conveys her dismay that he can actually sleep at all with the light of the world coming through the glass, but Shiro never does well out of sight of nature. He hasn’t for a long time.

Now he flexes the fingers of his right hand and marvels at the heightened sensation the Wiccan made live-wood fingers give him since his last recharging ritual. Usually in late spring it is nicer to perform the spell outdoors, but Shiro is not too proud to admit that he doesn’t want to get naked and bury his right arm up to the elbow when it is minus four and snowing. Besides, giving back to the earth is hard when it’s cold enough to make your balls want to retract into your body.

Shiro drags his magical prosthetic down his front, letting his eyes slide closed again as he feels over the ridges of his abs and the soft skin of his lower belly. He pets through the coarse, well-trimmed hair which trails lower, and wraps his fingers around the weight of his cock. Touching himself for the ritual is always wonderful, but jerking off the first time after a recharge is fucking fantastic.

His entire arm tingles, the feedback from his magical senses heightened, and it allows him to explore the textures of his cock in far greater detail then usual. Shiro uses the pad of one finger to tease his frenulum in soft circles before gliding down the velvety skin of his shaft. Pleasure rolls through him, tightening his balls as he moves to stroke and play with those too. Shiro uses his free hand to grab a pillow and wedge in under his head so that he has a better angle to watch as his foreskin finishes rolling back to reveal the flushed, pink tip of his cock.

As he watches himself – his pulse visible as he continues his slow, luxurious stroking – he pictures the folds and swirls of the plant in the glasshouse. It is definitely new, but it is not planting season for tropical plants, and to Shiro’s knowledge, no one from either the house or grounds staff has been out in recent days to the city in order to collect such an exotic important specimen. If it was a gift from his parents, Shiro knows they would have given it to him themselves, because they both know how much Shiro loves to get his hands dirty and do his own planting. He’ll have to check with the head gardener Veronica. If anyone knows where the beautiful plant came from, it’ll be her.

But thoughts of where the plant arrived from can wait, because Shiro raises his live-wood fingers to his mouth and licks them generously before cupping the exposed head of his cock. The plant had been so responsive, much more so than others. The ritual always makes whatever greenery is nearby reach out towards him as he gives back to the earth, but Shiro had pressed his face into that thick, richly scented flower and there had been an echo of pleasure from the plant itself. Licking and kissing the stamen had seemed only natural.

Shiro tugs down the soft white hair of his bangs, sniffing for the lingering scent of the plant’s pollen, and rolls the head of his cock in his prosthetic palm. The textural different as he smears himself with his precome make his toes curl in pleasure.

Shiro thrusts up into his hand, and wonders what it would be like to push the head of his cock into the wet, opening of the new plant’s pitcher instead. It looked so soft and inviting, the rim a gorgeous shade of lavender which deepened towards the rounded base. Shiro inhales through his nose, nostrils flaring, as he thinks of the tight fit it would make around his cock, those thin walls pulsing with life around him.

He pants as he works his palm over his cock head again and again, tasting the memory of the pretty flower’s pollen, reliving the textures of that thick stamen against his lips and tongue. Oh, how he wanted to just envelope it in his mouth and suck on it. The taste had been so sweet. Maybe he could kneel closer next time, have the thick leaves brush his inner thighs and his balls and over his arse whilst he grinds his cock alongside that wonderful stamen. He has no doubts it could withstand his rutting.

Shiro tightens his grip on himself as he feels the impending rise of his orgasm, his hole clenching as his balls tighten, his whole body ready to spill his seed and spoil his sheets yet again. He pushes two fingers of his other hand against of his mouth – a poor simulacrum of the stamen he would rather lavish his tongue and affection on – and visualises the head of his cock pushing into the open rim of the plant’s pitcher.

His orgasm knocks him from his senses for long enough that Shiro begins to hear the sounds of the rest of the household waking up around him. Groaning, he pulls himself from his bed, yanks the sheets off the mattress and leaves the bundle on the floor – he feels no need to hide what he’s done, but he also doesn’t need to display it for the housekeeper – and goes to his bathroom to wash.

By the time he emerges – wrapping a towel around his hips – the bed is freshly made, and one of the house staff is arranging his breakfast tray on an end table along with a sheaf of papers bearing the seals of several important companies.

“Ah, Rizavi, good morning.”

Rizavi nearly drops everything is shock.

“Master Shirogane!” She tries to complete her task whilst staring so hard at the floor Shiro thinks it might begin to dissolve under the pressure. “Please forgive my intrusion, Sir.”

Shiro glances down at himself, wet and bare chested from the shower, and laughs.

“Breakfast is not an intrusion, Rizavi.” Shiro pauses, frowning. “Are we not taking breakfast in the morning room?”

“Mother and Father went out early on- OH MY GODS, BROTHER!” Allura arrives in his doorway and then throws up her hands across her eyes. “Put some clothes on!”

Shiro snorts at his sister – already perfectly dressed and coiffed with her hair falling in gloriously silky waves down her back – and slumps into the window seat nearest his breakfast. He makes no move to get clothes, prompting Allura to stride across to his closet and haul the door open for him.

“Why is nothing here in order? Oh lords… has this even been cleaned since you last wore it? This certainly hasn’t… _Shiro_ , this has blood on from last autumn’s hunting trip!” Allura returns with a shirt and breeches and throws them at him. “Get dressed!”

“Won’t you join me for breakfast, dear sister?” Shiro sees the way her blue eyes light up with annoyance at his casual tone. Shiro begins to haul the shirt on. “What’s the fuss? We have seen each other naked before ‘Lura.”

“My darling brother, last time I saw you naked you were barely eleven, and you did not look like that.” Allura sighs dramatically and sits primly at the other end of the window seat, and plucks a slice of starfruit from Shiro’s plate. “Why will you not just hire a valet? Or keep any of the ones Father finds for you?”

“I do not need a valet,” Shiro grumbles, “I can cope with dressing myself.”

“That remains to be proven,” Allura says pointedly.

“Fine!” Shiro stands, gathering his clothes, and retreats behind the ornate scrollwork screen in defeat. “You know, you wouldn’t need a lady in waiting if your clothes weren’t so damn complicated.”

“I love Romelle. And we cannot all slouch around in shirtsleeves and trousers, Shiro.”

“You do when we hunt,” Shiro accuses as he emerges, beginning to search through his wardrobe for a vest which is clean. The chocolate brocade will do nicely. “Maybe Lotor likes a strong woman in breeches, you never know…”

Allura throws a piece of mango at him, Shiro catches and eats it, deliberately with his mouth open, causing his sister to shriek at him again.

They fall into easy, good natured teasing. Shiro eats his breakfast and begins to look over the papers he was delivered, whilst Allura picks apart and microanalyses every moment of her conversation the previous day with Lotor. She talks as though Shiro wasn’t walking twenty paces behind them the whole time and able to hear everything anyway. He’ll admit to not being Lotor’s biggest fan – the Lordling is too stuck up and too concerned with political climbing in Shiro’s opinion – but he and Allura are a good match. And they get on well enough. Shiro would never tease his sister about it, but he sees the way Lotor looks at her. The young Lord looks like he’s in love.

Shiro sets down the documents from one of his Father’s many business partners. Shiro knows it’ll be his job to take over the running of the estate and the family interests, but he gazes out the window, and all he wants is to be outside. Truthfully Allura would make a much better executive than he ever will. Hopefully, their Father can be convinced of that. He fiddles with his prosthetic fingers, stroking over the edges of the heavy linen paper, feeling the fibres in intense detail.

“Do we have anything we have to do after lunch?”

“No one is expected.”

“I might go out to the glasshouse.”

Allura rolls her eyes, but takes up the documents Shiro discarded.

“We do have groundskeepers, Shiro.”

“Yeah, and they can work on clearing the snow from the paths and uncovering father’s budding hydrangeas. I have weeding to do.” Shiro smiles, flexing is fingers, thinking how good it will feel to push into the earth around the new plant, to touch those leaves and petals. He wonders if it will still be so responsive in the light of day, without the influence of the ritual. He hopes so.

“Didn’t you _just_ recharge your arm?” Allura holds out her hand, and Shiro allows her to take his prosthetic, stroking over his knuckles. The living wood is smooth, his skin like the paper-fine bark of a silver birch, though softer and more supple.

Shiro squeezes his sister’s hand, just like he had done that first day. Fifteen years old, and scared and excited to feel fingers which had been lost for nearly a year. The grin they share is the just the same as it was back then.

“You do realise you’re not supposed to muck around in the dirt all the time, right Shiro? You need to be serious one of these days.”

Well, maybe the smile isn’t quite the same. Shiro sighs.

“The Great Goddess didn’t give it to me so I could sign papers all day either.” Shiro takes a deep breath. He hates it when he snaps at his sister. Patience. The witch who had bonded him to Gaia had been very firm on that point. _Patience yields focus_. “I have to give back ‘Lura, you know that.”

“Yeah, I know.” Allura shakes her head at him. “I swear you would have been happier born a commoner, then you could dig in the dirt all day long.

Shiro grins. That doesn’t sound half bad.

*

Shiro picks his way across the lawn – perfectly flawless with white powder – and raises a hand in greeting to the two grounds-staff he sees, who are indeed carefully yet frantically trying to stop the unseasonal snow from damaging his father’s favourite flowers. The green leaves and pink and blue buds of the hydrangeas are a welcome sight.

“And what are you doing damaging my grass, Young Master?”

Shiro ducks at the whip sharp tone of the head gardener, as though the action will hide all six-foot-four of him when there isn’t a speck of cover in sight.

“Hi, Veronica. Nice afternoon for a walk, isn’t it?”

“Bit underdressed aren’t you, Young Master?” Veronica asks, buried in her many layers as she takes in his outfit which is woefully inadequate for walking in the frigid air. “Off to the glasshouse?”

“Yes,” Shiro chuckles. He knows he is transparent in his love for the place. And Veronica understands his adoration of gardening. “Veronica? Were any new plants installed recently? Perhaps in the bed with the monsteras?”

“No, Sir.” Veronica frowns. “Is something amiss?”

“No no, it is of no importance.” Shiro waves her concern away. “I’ll let you know if I need assistance.”

Shiro locks the glasshouse door behind him, and takes his time wandering amongst the plants, touching all and any that spark his interest. A trail – thread thin – of lingering magic flows behind him. It will fade within the day, for he is not himself magical. Shiro settles down, cross legged on the warm, bare earth, and places his chin in his hand, staring at the new plant.

“So… where _did_ you come from?”

The new plant is larger than it was yesterday, the foliage more lush with verdant green tones. The petal of the flower Shiro so loving doted on is a rich, deep red in the centre, and only the very tip of the thick stamen is visible deep within. Shiro licks his lips, remembering the sensation of gliding his lips and tongue over that warm, hard plant flesh. It is far larger than any stamen he has seen before, and Shiro has spent as much time as possible around plants of all kinds since his right arm was grafted to him.

Without considering the motion, he reaches down again into the flower and rubs his fingertips across the tip. It is as warm as he is – warmer even – and big. Big as the real thing for sure. Shiro encircles the stem of the flower – for that is where the rest of the stamen’s length must be hidden – with his fingers, and sure enough the circle they make is only slightly narrower than the grasp he uses on himself in the mornings. He tickles softly up the very outer edge of the red petal.

“So pretty and gifted. So special.”

And the flower… turns. It is a suggestion of movement, a tiny twisting, but Shiro is certain he did not imagine it. Shiro slides his fingers back across the flat of the petal, the smooth surface as big as his palm, moist with the thick air of the glasshouse. There is not enough magic left in him – and certainly not in his left hand – to stimulate the plant, but it quivers regardless, and the flower blooms open with an almost audible sigh.

“Pretty flower. Aren’t you good and eager, hmmm?”

Shiro strokes over the petal again, and then beams with joy when the thick, rounded tip of the stamen begins to push upward from within the deep folds. Shiro continues his light touch, teasing softly, until the whole of the length is revealed. It looks just as mouth-watering as last time.

Shiro was on the cusp of his seventeenth birthday when he accidentally discovered something new to add to the incantation taught to him by the witch who was responsible for his arm. By then, he had stopped needing regular check-ups, though his doctors still liked to run him through a full set of physical tests whenever he visited, and he had grown used to the weekly ritual of recharging the living-wood.

It is not a complicated process. Dig a hole in good earth, bury himself up to the elbow, repeat the incantation, and give back to the spirit of Gaia as the magic flows into him. The ‘ _giving back’_ had been described to him in non-specific terms. After two years of pricking his natural-thumb with a pin and dripping blood onto the soil, Shiro had given into the rush of heat which always seemed to be his body’s reaction to the magical surge and grasped instead at the urgent hardness between his thighs. The moment his come had splattered on the ground, Shiro had felt the ritual complete, and his newly excavated arm had been full of sensation once more.

After that, Shiro had started completing his ritual late into the evenings, requesting privacy, and wearing fewer and fewer clothes. And no one has thought to disturb him since.

It seems natural now, in the privacy of his greenhouse, to disrobe even though it is not yet dark. Undulating foliage surrounds Shiro on all sides, and he is as secluded here as he is when alone in his own room. More so in fact, because there is no one to press their ear to the wall or the wood of his doorway, and listen to him as he moans.

His body does not care that he jerked off this morning and last night, his cock springs up the moment Shiro finishes unlacing his breeches and slaps against his abdomen, fully hard and throbbing with need. He strokes himself slowly, easing into the sensation, not wanting to rush, and turns his attention back to the new plant.

The whole thing seems turned towards him now, as though it is a display specimen at the flower show – the kind where each leaf and flower has been cut and wired in place in order to present a perfect picture to the onlookers, even though the plant itself is dead. But this plant is not dead, far from it. Shiro watches as a leaf near him uncoils, the spiral of its inner edge fanning out in a motion which Shiro’s hindbrain can only interpret as welcoming.

“Pretty. Is that for me?”

Shiro strokes the leaf with his live-wood fingers, feeling the pulse of the sap flowing through narrow, textured veins. He smiles, dropping to his knees, and drags the heavy length of his cock against the leading edge of the leaf. The plant quivers, and Shiro knows that somehow, the reaction must be deliberate. The leaf is warm, smooth and glossy, and it feels fantastic when Shiro tilts his hips back down and thrusts against the surface once more. In the centre of the red flower, the pale stamen releases a tiny, soft puff of pollen.

“You like that, huh?” Shiro wraps a hand around the base of his shaft and smears a slick trail of precome across the leaf. “Me too.”

On his knees in the dirt, Shiro shuffles closer, until the thick spiral leaves of the plant are brushing over his thighs and hips. They touch him delicately, deliberately, and Shiro caresses them each in return, until his questing fingers come to the thin tendril which supports the weight of the hanging pitcher.

“Fuck- that’s so pretty.”

Shiro feels dizzy, breathless as he cups his fingers underneath the rounded base. It feels heavy in his hand, full, the thin plant-flesh warm and supple with the liquid inside. Shiro rolls his fingers – using the same motion with which he plays with his own balls – and inexplicably the pitcher in his hand flushes a deeper shade of purple.

“Gorgeous.” Shiro runs the pad of his thumb up the fluted side of the pitcher and rubs circles against it, right up under the curved rim. “Fucking beautiful.”

The pitcher hangs open, inviting, the rim shining with a lustre that Shiro cannot help but trail his fingers over. It is smooth, with no hints of barbs or hairs designed to trap small prey, but Shiro resists the temptation to slip is fingers further into it. Under his touch, the opening quivers.

“And why is it I get the feeling that you aren’t toxic?” Shiro slides his fingertip around the rim again, playing with it, feeling the way the plant flutters under his touch. “I really must find out.” He pulls away, and the plant rustles as though to follow him. “Hush, my love. I’m not going anywhere.”

Carefully, so as not to crush the developing shoots and stem below him, Shiro moves as close to the main flower as he can get. Almost immediately, the thick petalled red flower dips to meet him.

“Eager…”

It’s a harmless, soft tease, because Shiro is no less desperate and he reaches out to wrap his fingers around the thick shaft of the stamen, closing the distance between them until the soft, talc-like pollen transfers onto his own cock.

“Fuck-”

Shiro wraps his hand around them both and groans as the sensation of hard warmth pressing against him. He cannot help the quick jerking of his hips, fucking up against the pretty flower’s stamen. The friction is exquisite as he drags the tip of his cock back down the length, pollen mixing with his precome, smearing along them both.

“Gorgeous.”

Shiro gathers the slippery fluid with his finger, and sucks it off. He groans; they taste so good together. His thrusts become more frantic, less coordinated, and then Shiro takes his cock by the base and changes angles so that this time the head of his cock fucks directly against the stamen’s shaft, and then down into the folds of the flower. Lower, the knobbles of the stigma press against his slit and Shiro pants hard, pleasure clouding his vision at the sudden change in texture. He groans, grinding the flushed head of his cock between the bumpy stigma and the soft flesh of the petal, digging his teeth into his lower lip as he feels his orgasm approaching.

“Fuck- _fuck_ \- that’s it. Pretty… _good flower_.” Shiro’s hand wraps around the stamen, squeezing gently, his grip jerking as his hips stutter. And then he gasps, coming in uncontrolled spurts against the stigma, his seed slipping down the soft red velvet of the petal. In his hand, the stamen pulses, a cloud of fine pollen settling over his knuckles. “Yeah, you like that, huh?”

Breathing hard, Shiro settles back, sitting on his heels, trailing his hand across the glossy leaves. He smiles, gazing at the pretty flower, the trickle of his come still splashed across the petals, and then his eyes drifts to the heavy, enticing shape of the pitcher once more.

“You’re so pretty. I want you so much, sweet thing.” Shiro searches the pockets of his dishevelled clothing to find an empty vial. “I don’t know what kind of plant you are, though I searched through my books long into the night. I will have to test you instead.”

Gently, without touching the inside of the pitcher, Shiro tilts it until he can glimpse the thick liquid within, and drips a small quantity into the vial. It is golden like honey, glowing like the sun through the leaves in late summer, and Shiro deeply wishes to taste it. But not yet.

“What are you, pretty flower?”

Shiro stoppers the vial, and finally moves away far enough to tuck his softened cock back into his breeches. But before he can lace them up once more, the plant before him shudders, the movement entirely independent of any breeze or touch, and Shiro has to blink as his vision swims.

By the time he is able to focus once more, the plant is gone, and crouched in its place is a boy. A young man with glossy green skin, just like his leaves with shades of rich purple along his limbs and over his cheeks and jaw, his lips are a beautiful flushed scarlet below bright, violet eyes. He is beautiful.

Shiro stares as the boy wraps his arms around himself, brows drawing low, and when he speaks, sharp white teeth gleam inside his pretty mouth.

“I am _not_ carnivorous!”

**Author's Note:**

> Please come chat with us on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/SashaDistan)
> 
> This author responds to comments.
> 
> Thank you to the incredible [Lole](https://twitter.com/@leandralena) for being an awesome beta reader.


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